"Stand in the corner,"you said.
Feel the old wall.
Near the frame scratched by a knife,
written "1934".
Who knew we would be quiet with habitable space of time:
iron wooden door covered with moss,
hinges crushed by the salty sea,
images of two late presidents on one wall.
Perhaps this lighthouse will protect us of those things mean with minimal excursion.
A guard once wrote one sentence in the ceiling, "My light gives everything to the ocean."
We do not yet know who's been here,
Are we guests here?
Stuck in a swath of the island, we can also feel at home
with a hunk of coral and piles of embankment which
getting used to the tide
like dry weeds in the northern bush
it is not far
which almost washed away, but always meet the waves.
I can not answer what will disappear and what will arrive later.
What is recorded,
What is remembered?
What is inferred?
"It could be in the lighthouse we will also make history," I said.
"Perhaps," you replied, "But do not worry. History is only a form of origami,
story composed from memory,
folds are not stitched to die,
paper's seagull that flying shaken by the wind
and discussed from afar.
We also who then should envisage its direction.
Amazing that you are so patient.
"Ah, stand in the corner," you replied,
And see: the sea does not invade us
From the lighthouse we will try to understand the storm
when the sky can not be expected.
***
In the following waves
I nod with a thin dream:
A Junk boat. Row of the display at night.
Two people in the stern
who do not know where they are.
"But we are happy,"
said one of them.
Actually they hope someone waits in the harbor
But a child who falls asleep on the dock with a cotton costume is delirious
does not call.
When I wake up, the wind roars.
I see our shadows on the wall are bent slightly
and the moving death is like the silhouette of a child's hand.
Perhaps at the top of the lighthouse
has been engraved a pair of initials
a name that will long stay
the name of the dead
our names, the dead.
***
[CZ-122513]
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